


john’s belated breakfast.

by degenerateink



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, Breakfast, Comfort, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Soft!John, chef!Rook, model airplanes & coffee, putting the 'break' in 'breakfast', recipe for sweet lovin', tragic backstories & pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 01:43:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16630511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/degenerateink/pseuds/degenerateink
Summary: Rook just wanted fucking pancakes.





	john’s belated breakfast.

Rook just wanted fucking pancakes.

To be fair, breaking into John’s ranch wasn’t the brightest idea in the world, especially since she hasn’t technically liberated it yet (which epitomizes her life more simply than anything else could - a list of technicalities that she means to get around to), but it isn’t like this is the first time she’s done so.

The diners in Holland Valley that used to be open 24/7 had either closed down or were nothing but cinder and ash after John’s arrival and uprising in the region, his cultists finding delight in scaring independent business owners and burning down their establishments.

Rook figures the least that said sibling could do was offer his hospitality and a hearty breakfast at 3:00 A.M.

Preferably unbeknownst to him, so that her skin could stay on her body. 

But she isn’t prepared for this.

•

He’s mumbling under his breath - desperate, horrified, pleading - writhing in his bed, as if the sheets are trying to strangle him.

“— sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll confess. I’ll—“

Rook threads her fingers through his hair, slick with sweat, brushes the dark strands out of his face.

“Wake up, John... Wake up, sweetheart. You’re okay. You’re safe. You have nothing to confess to.”

That isn’t really true. 

But it isn’t as if she has any room to judge.

John wakes with a start, gasping for breath, tears cutting down his cheeks, mingling with sweat.

She isn’t fazed, brushes the salty drops away with her thumbs.

“You’re all right, John. Breathe. In and out.”

Have his eyes always been this blue? Or is it the tears shimmering in their depths that make them glimmer like sapphires? 

“Deputy…?” John’s voice is rough, hoarse - a combination of just waking up and his throaty pleas for mercy in his nightmares.

Rook does her hardest not to linger on the latter, fixes her mouth into a smile that she hopes is reassuring, comforting. 

“That’s me.”

Two simple words have the effect of a complex equation, rendering him weary and anxious.

“What... What are you…”

“Long story. Why don’t you take a shower and meet me downstairs? I’ve got food cooking.”

A plethora of emotions play across his face. 

Confusion, as to why she’s here. 

Fear, as to the possibility of her killing him. 

Skepticism, as to her doing something as domestic as cooking, given their... relationship.

Rook chuckles. “If I wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it in your sleep. Probably the ideal way to do so, because it’s the only time you aren’t sending me mixed messages over the radio. But I digress. Get a move on, Prince Charming. Dinner— well, actually— breakfast will be ready in fifteen.”

•

Once the water’s running, Rook strips the bed of the sweat-drenched blankets and sheets, tosses them in the washer downstairs, fetches fresh linens from the closet just a few doors over.

It oughta be disconcerting how familiar she is with this place. For fuck’s sake, this is enemy territory. 

As it is, Rook pushes the thought to the recesses of her mind, just as she does with most things liable to give her a headache, fixes the fresh sheets over his bed, drapes the clean duvet across the mattress and heads downstairs to the kitchen.

Breakfast for two. 

Comin’ up. 

•

“So, deputy - would you like to tell me what you’re doing in my humble abode at three o’ clock in the morning?”

Rook doesn’t bother stifling the undignified snort that leaves her mouth. 

“There are hundreds of words to describe this place, Pretty Boy, but humble isn’t one of them.”

A smile threatens to sneak at the corner of his mouth, but Rook turns back to the stove before she can see it prevail. 

She’s had enough distractions for one day. 

And she isn’t even four hours into it, yet. 

“I wanted pancakes.”

Rook might as well’ve said she’d built the pyramids in Egypt by hand in a single night by the incredulous stare John gives her. 

“You wanted pancakes,” John says slowly, rolling the syllables around on his tongue, as if reiterating the words himself would make them more believable. 

“And none of your… companions would have accepted you into their household?’

Rook flips the third and final pancake simmering in the pan with a rather impressive flourish, if she does say so herself.

“Of course they would’ve. But it’s three o’ clock in the morning, Prince Charming. Do you have any idea how rude it’d be to barge in for breakfast at such an ungodly hour?”

Nobody has the right to look that adorable when they scowl.

Rook nudges the plate of pancakes in his direction, starts whisking the next batch, drops a handful of blueberries in.

“So you broke into my house for breakfast?”

“Ironic, huh? Putting the ‘break’ in breakfast.”

Fuck, John was cute when he laughed. 

An actual laugh, not the caustic or sarcastic cackle that was tinged with mania. 

Rook wonders how many more times she can wrangle that laugh out of him before the night — morning — ends. 

•

“How do you know your way around my ranch this well?” John asks, curiosity and accusation rolled up into a single pointed question as she puts all of the sealed ingredients and cleaned utensils back in their respective places. 

Rook levels a look at him, one that speaks volumes without uttering a word, because really, how else would she know her way around this place like the back of her hand?

John’s responding stare is so comical, so gobsmacked, so offended that Rook chokes on her coffee.

“How many times have you been in here?!”

“Lost count after ten. Your security sucks, Pretty Boy. Might want to invest in an alarm system or something.”

John is fuming - not in that dangerous way that means a lengthy lecture about sin or a capture-party hurling her with bliss bullets - but like a child bristling because they’d lost a game before it’d even started. 

“By the way, the next time I visit, I want an exclusive tour of that model plane room. Coolest fucking thing I’ve seen.”

Just like that, the petulant anger dissipates. 

Heat rises to his cheeks, paints them a lovely shade of pink that is bright enough to peek out through his beard, makes Rook smile behind her cup.

“What’s the verdict, counselor?” Rook asks, showing him a mercy to distract him from his flushed features. 

“… They aren’t the worst pancakes I’ve eaten…” John mumbles around a forkful - correction, the last forkful - of pancake. 

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Rook laughs, beaming at the sight of his emptied, cleaned plate. 

It’s good to see him eat.

She doesn’t know where the fuck that thought had come from, but the fact of the matter is… It’s true. 

Though he wasn’t as wiry as Joseph, John could stand to gain a few pounds. 

Which is why she switches out his empty plate with a full one, this stack thicker and heartier than the last, cutting off his meager argument with a wave of her spatula.

“You need more meat on your bones, Pretty Boy. Besides, you’ll sleep better with a full stomach. That’s a deputy-certified fact.” 

“Is that right?” John asks, with a cocked brow and distracting smirk, as he spreads butter and drizzles a healthy amount of syrup across his feast. 

•

Though John had told her a fraction about his adoptive parents in his bunker, he goes into detail as they dive into breakfast. 

How they thought he was tainted. 

How they forced him to confess every day, pray for forgiveness every night. 

How he’d make-up sins because they’d beat him if he didn’t confess to something.

Rook doesn’t say anything throughout - lets him speak because spilling out all of that poison after having it bottled up for so long had to be cathartic - listening intently to his history, stifling the urge to reach out for his hand when his voice cracks or when he swallows thickly around the emotion balling up in his throat.

But she caves when he talks about a particularly nasty beating, one that’d left him with deep scars on his back from the lashes of a heavy belt — because he’d forgotten his Bible at home one morning in grade school, how dare he leave God’s Word behind, such disrespect for their Lord would not go unpunished — takes a deep, shaky breath to try and regain his composure.

He’s surprised at the contact, that much is certain when he stares - shocked - at their interwoven fingers. 

Rook blanches, thinks she’s made a mistake, about to pull away awkwardly, curse herself inwardly, because she isn’t the greatest with intimacy and it looks like she’d just fucked up her latest attempt, but then he’s lacing their fingers together, squeezing her hand in his, like he’s just found his respite in the storm. 

It isn’t until John’s finished, with recounting his time with the Duncans and the food on his plate, that Rook speaks, voice low and dark.

“Where are they?”

Rook certainly does not think about how a shiver unraveled down John’s spine when those words left her mouth.

“... They died during my third year of law school. Car accident. Leaving me, their prodigious son, a small fortune. Thriving in Atlanta was a bit easier when you didn’t have the weight of money - well, the lack thereof - crushing down your shoulders.”

“I’d imagine.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Haven’t killed any elderly folks in a while. Especially ones that actually deserved it. Thought this might’ve been an ample opportunity to revisit an old pastime... Heh. Get it? Old?” 

Though his face scrunches in distaste, she can clearly make-out a smile that he’s trying, rather poorly, to disguise. 

“Your puns are atrocious.”

“Your face is atrocious,” Rook sticks her tongue out, like the full-fledged adult she is.

John’s laughter has become the greatest thing to grace her ears in her whole life in less than an hour. 

Rook doesn’t realize she’s said this aloud until John ducks his head down, pink tinging the apples of his cheeks. 

•

With the two of them full and content, Rook slinks over to the sink and washes their plates and glasses (“I got ‘em dirty, Pretty Boy. I may be a tormenting asshole, but I do have manners.”) while John dries them. (“Yes, well - it’s my house and you cooked for me. I have to do something.”) 

The whole thing is more domestic than Rook thought him - well, really, either of them - capable of. 

•

When the dishes are clean and dry, Rook walks him back up to his room, the silence comfortable - welcoming - between them.

She’s about to bid him adieu when—

“Rook?”

“What’s up, Prince Charming?” 

John’s hand reaches for hers before he realizes what he's doing.

"Stay…?" 

To say that Rook’s surprised would‘ve been the understatement of the year. 

For a fleeting moment, her whiskey eyes glance down to their entangled fingers, so very similar to when she’d reached for his hand after he shared the horrendous nightmare of his childhood with her.

He waits to be met with scorn or laughter or rejection. 

His heart pounds against his rib cage, threatening to bruise his ribs, for the infinity that lay in those seconds. 

“… Yeah. Yeah, sure." 

A debilitating weight is eased off his shoulders when she squeezes his hand.

The look of absolute adoration along with the relieved smile that stretches across his face makes Rook’s cheeks flush with color. 

John wastes no time, tugging her into his bed with his fingers coiled around her wrist, unwilling to let go of her in fear that she’d disintegrate like a dream that was too good to be true. 

He drapes his arms around Rook’s waist, folding himself into her side with an ease that suggests they’ve done this dozens, hundreds, thousands of times before, as opposed to the first time, with his head tucked beneath her chin and his face buried in the crook of her neck. 

When John feels her arms slowly wind around his shoulders, every last worry humming around the edges of his mind fades to nothing but background static. 

“... Thank you,” John breathes against the vulnerable skin of her throat, where he can feel her pulse thump steadily beneath his lips. 

John could’ve imagined it, but he feels the lightest touch against his forehead.

A kiss.

“Sleep tight, sweetheart.” 

His arms tighten around her, but Rook doesn’t seem to mind, his eyes slipping shut as her pulse beats a steady, calming rhythm against his lips. 

The rest of the world could wait until tomorrow.

The nightmares could fuck right off.

Because today, tonight, right now — he has Rook. 

And she’s the greatest thing he’s had in a long, long time. 

•

Beams of sunlight slip through the cracks of the blinds, and John slowly blinks awake. 

11:49 A.M. The red digits gleam vibrantly in the morning light.

The drowsiness fades in moments. 

He sits up, expecting to feel his shirt clinging to his skin or feel a pool of sweat beneath his palms, but the cotton shirt is loose on his torso and the sheets are as dry as the Sahara. 

Realization dawns. 

He didn't have a nightmare. Not a single one. He’d actually slept without tossing, turning or screaming out from various horrible images or haunting figures flashing behind his eyelids.

Confusion was the first thought to run rampant through his mind. Suspicion wasn’t far behind. Relief was not as strong, skepticism outweighing it by a couple of grams, but gratitude was definitely slipping through. 

John had forgotten the wonders that a good night's rest managed to perform on a weary soul.

Then he remembers why he slept so soundly.

The note tucked beneath his cellphone catches his attention, the chicken-scratch for handwriting making him laugh because it’s precisely what he’d imagined from the self-proclaimed dyslexic who needed a solid three hours to read a single chapter out of a book. 

“Feel free to call the next time you want a midnight snack and a living, breathing teddy bear.” 

\- Your Friendly Neighborhood Deputy 

(xxx) xxx-xxxx

He clutches the note to his chest, like he wants the words to seep through his skin and become a part of him, more permanent than any of the tattoos or scars embroidered across his flesh. 

He smiles.


End file.
